


Because I Didn't Need You

by 2babyturtles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gen, John Watson's Blog, M/M, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-17 11:18:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16973616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: This came about as I was watching Sherlock (again) and wondered at the fact that Sherlock had been working before meeting John, but was never famous or successful until afterwards.  What if that weren't the case?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This came about as I was watching Sherlock (again) and wondered at the fact that Sherlock had been working before meeting John, but was never famous or successful until afterwards. What if that weren't the case?

The newspaper never reported crimes accurately but it was particularly irritating when Sherlock had been the one to solve them, which was most of the time.  At least if he hadn't attended the crime scene, then he didn't know explicitly how much was left out or misreported.  Today, however, he was sitting in his chair, reading a report of his own work, and shaking his head.  Satisfaction was a low bar, and one rarely met.  

"They've called me dashing again," he called out to Mrs. Hudson, finding one thing about the whole thing true then.  

"They always do that, dear, they know you're single."  Occupied as she was with the state of Sherlock's lab, which was meant to be a kitchen, Mrs. Hudson didn't look up at him.  Whatever she said next was said to the table when she leaned over it, muttering.  

Sherlock ignored her and continued to read the article in his hands, tossing it aside disgusted only once he was finished.  However much he hated it, he wasn't prone to disregarding it.  He sighed tremendously and slouched in his seat.  "I'll have to lay low," he said miserably.  "Too many people know my face."  

"Laying low won't find you a flatmate," Mrs. Hudson pointed out, eliciting a groan from her tenant.  "You can't afford this place on your own, you have to start looking."  

"I was able to afford it just fine until you raised the prices on me," Sherlock replied sourly.  He was more irritated then anything that he knew Mrs. Hudson was doing it as much to encourage him to get out of the house for social reasons, as to force him into finding a friend.  Sherlock doubted that many people willing to be his flatmate would also be the sort he would want to be friends with, but didn't say as much.  "What do you suggest then?"

Mrs. Hudson frowned.  Sherlock rarely took her advice, even when he requested it, so he couldn't blame her for doubting his sincerity in requesting it now.  "I suggest you get out and meet someone," she said simply.  

* * *

John Watson sat in a coffeeshop wishing he could afford another coffee.  Between his doughnut, paper, and small coffee, he certainly couldn't afford another of any of those.  Sipping at the dredges of his simple drip beverage, blacker than the bags under his eyes, he considered the picture of a tall man in a long coat alongside an article about a local detective.  There was something about the man's expression that made John feel comforted.  Sherlock Holmes was fairly well known these days, so there was something to be said for the familiarity of the man's face, but there was more than that.  There was a sad cynicism in his eyes that was all too common for john's own face and he viewed the world with a darkness that left him lonely.  It was likely even the reason he was looking for a flatmate, despite the social fatigue it left him with.  

"Sherlock Holmes," he murmured to himself, wondering at whether he was indeed similar to the man in the paper.  "Are you lonely too?"  

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Perhaps it was foolish of John Watson to be so optimistic on a day that truly provided little reason.  He was far shy of an optimistic man in most circumstances, and a rainy London day was the standard for "most circumstances" anyway.  This particularly rainy London day, however, found John Watson in a part of town that he didn't usually frequent.  Perhaps it was foolish of John Watson to be so enamored with the door knocker, wondering if it would ever feel comfortable in his hand, to be so intrigued by the outlines and silhouettes in the window above him, wondering if one of them would ever be his, or to be so full of hope at the sight of 221B Baker Street.  

It had been only a few days since he'd sat in a coffeeshop, considering the image of the detective in the newspaper, and he'd been completely awestruck to find out that the man was seeking a flatmate.  The fact that John had little to offer in the role had not escaped his attention, but he could only hope.  He needed a home as badly as Sherlock Holmes needed someone to split the rent with.  Perhaps, if they were lucky, they would each also find what the other was seeking.  Heavens knew John could use the help with rent, the question was whether Sherlock Holmes was hoping "home" would move in with him.  Despite these hopes and dreams that he briefly allowed to circulate his tired mind, John was not the sort of man to seek a flatmate as a result of being the man's fan.  John was interested in crime, sure, but he hadn't been in London when Sherlock Holmes had become well-known and was only hearing about him now.  As a result, he was drawn to the look in the man's eyes when he saw the picture in the paper, not the things those eyes had seen that got him printed there.  

The ad John had seen seemed rather foolish to him (although he was certainly in no position to judge it).  It provided the detective's address and state of need.  While most people in London could figure out with ease where Sherlock Holmes live since he would be sorely lacking clients if they could not find him, it all seemed rather . .  Vulnerable.  It wasn't the sort of vulnerable that put a man at ease either, which explained why John was so far from comfortable when he knocked on the door on Baker Street.  As it turned out, the knocker did not fit his hand well, or perhaps it did not knock well.  It was up high enough on the door, however, that when John removed his hand and realized he'd left it crooked, he did not care to fix it.  

An elderly woman opened the door, a beaming grin on her face.  She looked like the sort of person that would set all her friends up with blind dates, and half of them would be perfectly delightful matches.  The other half would be terrible matches, just because she'd find the whole thing entertaining.  John suddenly wondered how much of a hand she'd had in writing her tenant's advertisement, when she introduced herself as Mrs. Hudson, the landlady.  John introduced himself and expressed interest in the available room before following Mrs. Hudson inside and upstairs.  She, however, stopped on the landing.  

"He'll be in there," she said, gesturing at a door set partially open.  

John stared at her.  "What, I just walk right in?" 

"I'm afraid you'll have to get used to walking through doorways all on your own if you want to live around here," Mrs. Hudson replied thoughtfully.  She paused for a moment, considering this apparent dilemma, before shrugging and heading back downstairs, leaving John alone to his fate and to Sherlock Holmes.  

* * *

Another set of footsteps, this one accompanied by the signature  _thud_ of a cane.  Another hesitant lingerer on the stairs outside the door.  To Sherlock's mild surprise and sincere amusement, these steps did not hesitate long.  Instead, they seemed to move with determination, taking measured paces up the stairs and towards the door to the flat they hoped to occupy long term-- Mrs. Hudson rarely left clients alone on the landing, a helpful tool in discerning how long this particular guest would be staying.  Or hoping to.  

The blonde-haired man with a military posture stood squarely in the doorway when he opened it, and seemed ill at ease.  Somehow, it didn't seem to be the disordered state of the room that made the man uncomfortable though.  Instead, he almost looked like he was unused to the cautious smile that had found a home on his face today.  It was a rather unpleasant expression, which was a shame since the man who bore it was strong and rather pleasing to look at.  

Interested, Sherlock did not say a word in greeting.  He was sprawled on the couch at one side of the room, picking at the strings on his violin, and maintaining an utterly bored expression himself.  He was aware of the man's actions through the use of his peripherals and a cursory glance up in the first few heartbeats they performed in shared space.  Again, the man was unlike the others that had attempted to take up residency here.  There had been a whole line of people the first few hours after the advertisement went out, but most had been utterly put off by the detective's insistence on being himself.  It was all rather convenient for Sherlock but probably irritated Mrs. Hudson, who was then required to use the stairs more often than she preferred to do in a single day.  

While others had been discouraged by the lack of reception, and had managed only awkward, jilted conversation in the doorway, this man watched Sherlock for only a moment before apparently making a decision.  His steely eyes took in Sherlock's lanky form on the couch, then the state of the rest of the flat, and then Sherlock again.  He nodded decisively.  Then, he strode across the living room and took a seat in the larger of two armchairs, where he could see out the window if he so desired, and where the kitchen was safely out of sight.  Sherlock wondered if that was because he was hungry and didn't want to think of the kitchen, or whether it was because he had seen what was in there and was afraid it might mean he could never be hungry again.  

Nearly twenty minutes passed in this fashion, and the man occupied himself contentedly with looking around and then reading the newspaper he found on the table beside the armchair opposite the one he'd sat in.  They were interrupted when Mrs. Hudson came back to see how things had gone, only to find that they were still going.  

"Shall I bring some tea?" she asked Sherlock, evidently not sure how to encourage conversation.  

"Yes, and a contract or what have you.  He'll take the room."  

The man looked up, considering Sherlock, the room, and then Sherlock again.  He looked at Mrs. Hudson and nodded.  Then he returned to his newspaper.  

"John Watson," he added as Mrs. Hudson left.  

Sherlock suppressed a smile; that was the best introduction yet.  

* * *

John suppressed a smile; that was the best feeling yet.  

 

 


End file.
